Troubled Nights
by LumenLupus
Summary: A life of chasing shadows makes for a weary hunter, and dreams are no respite.


So I've re-written bits and pieces of this, my first draft was written on two hours sleep and a lot of coffee. I'm sure there are still a few errors and flaws that people can point me out on, and I'd be glad to hear them! The narrator wasn't too clear originally so I added a small passage where Dipper calls Pacifica by name, do tell me if it feels to forced or ruins the flow of the piece.

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You wake to Dipper's inhuman screams, black tears stream from his eyes as his words twist into eldritch syllables not fit for human throats, it'll be raw for a week after this and you can't do anything about it. It kills you a little inside every time you see him like this, his lanky frame wracked by half choked sobs in-between mangled non-words. All you can do now is comfort him as he recovers. He retches again and you cling to him, holding him as close as you can. The two of you slump together, the air silent save for Dipper's backwards choking sobs. The terrors won't end until morning comes around. Monster hunting has taken it's toll on him as the years ware on.

Once you were angry at him for this, for hunting all the horrifying mysteries, for not stopping at Gravity Falls. You've seen him fight off horrors from places that shouldn't be, summon unspeakable darkness and banish it just as easily, and deep down you know that he's fought more than he'd care to tell you of. Dipper has stared into the abyss and now he can't look away. You think you stopped being angry with him a while ago, it reduces itself to a dull hammering in the back of your chest. In a sort of twisted way you understand why he keeps chasing things he shouldn't, it's adrenaline or adventure maybe. You're not sure, but either way you can tell Dipper couldn't leave this life behind even if he wanted to. You remember the night the two of you drove through the streets in that rickety old golf cart, screeching round the corners as werewolves hurtled after you. He screamed and whooped with a mad kind of joy, his eyes were fire in the black night and in that moment he was almost blinding.  
He turned to you afterwards and, exhausted as he was, the first words he said to you were "This is why I love you, Pacifica."  
You could not have thought of a less romantic time he could have confessed, but at the same time this is why you fell for him in the first place. The confession was Dipper, in his entirety. There was no glamor in running for your life from werewolves and gnomes, but there was a rush to it that no party or fine ball would ever capture.  
What simple times those were, no demons or horrors visited in early morning liminal trances. No creeping shadows in the evening, and darkened muttered words. Somewhere along the line Gravity Falls stopped being enough.

You have nightmares of your own, silent ones though. They're always the same, he's so far away and no matter how loud you shout he'll never hear you. You don't scream when you wake, but warm tears stain your face and a horrific dread settles in your heart for weeks afterwards. Dipper, on the other hand, is stained permanently by his nightmares, if you could call them that. You swear it's possession sometimes, the way his eyes roll back in his head and black fluid pours out instead of tears or vomit. It smells like burning rubber and tar, it takes 3 washes to get it out of the sheets and even then you end up burning most of them. Dipper took to sleeping with a bucket near just so you wouldn't have to keep buying them. You told him not to be silly and no more was said. Stan doesn't say anything on the matter, but his eyes turn cloudy when he sees Dipper and they sit for long hours, talking over the world 'till the dawn comes. Dipper's quieter now, more content to listen, and it's something you miss. The hundred mile an hour machine gun chatter of his mind, it's too quiet now. He won't tell you his dreams, but the way he clutches at you like you're made of glass or the way he lingers a little longer when he hugs Mabel or Stan you can guess, and it horrifies you.

He looks at you some days and you can tell the nightmares are coming, the glazed look in his eyes as if he's seen something again. Something no one else can see, or should see. Sometimes he'll freeze up and turn the other way, walking briskly off. You've learned it's best not to ask, it makes it easier on him. You don't wish to share in the same horror, because your every waking second is spent as a reminder of what happens when you chase shadows, but you do wish you understood. Even just a little, to be able to hold him and not feel helpless. As his sobs slowly become more and more human you feel a sense of relief, the nightmares are ending quicker these days. You hope to yourself one day you might have the man you love back, back from whatever horrible thing has taken him, has reduced him to this sunken eyed insomniac. He still smiles like he did that night, when you trod mud into your parents' carpet.

He always loved that side of you, the wild eyed free-spirited lady. He forgets dates and all his meticulous planning is lost now, but he remembers the important things. He remembers you the day you stood resolute against your parents, he remembers all the times you bandaged him when he'd lost more blood than was healthy and he had bones poking out of places they shouldn't, he remembers the look on your face as you stitched his wounds shut and set his arm, he remembers the look on your face when you told him you understood why he did all this, that it was his nature. He remembers promising to be more careful, and sighs deeply after that.  
Sometimes, on a good day he'll dress up in the suit he wore when the two of you went out dancing. It's still crisp as the day he first wore it and you swear he's enchanted it or something, because it never changes. He has though, his eyes are deep set now. Black rings collect under his eyes and his hair has dulled. He's lean now, all muscle and bone. Sometimes you put on your dress too, and the two of you dance to a slow jazz record that's been played a million times before. The needle jumps and dances its own tune in the grooves, skipping and sliding. By now the two of you mirror it, your dancing frantic and jumping from one spot to the next. It's beautiful in a sharp kind of way, you think.

Dipper finally subsides into silence, shivering in a cold sweat. You help him to the bathroom and you both sit under the shower, warm water pouring over the two of you. The sweat and black stains running down his face are all washed away, and he looks reborn in the steaming water. He's an evergreen in Summer you think to yourself. A sickly evergreen, but an evergreen nonetheless.  
He sighs, his lanky form looks tired and his eyes hold a weariness to them that someone his age shouldn't have.  
"I'm so sorry" is the only thing he can think to say. You weep and he holds you this time, he tells you that one day all of this will end and clasps your hands, it brings you more warmth than the shower ever will. The two of you stay there until the sun rises, the bathroom bathed in a cool blue glow. The sun is red over the horizon, burning furiously as it claws its way over the horizon. The sky streams a pale pallet of reds and purples, and Dipper's breathing becomes less shallow. As the sun rises you allow yourself to collapse into Dipper's arms, he's warmer now. The icy cold has slowly drained from his body, leaving only his fingertips chilled. His arms still hold you the same way, and you sigh in calm relief. In the corner of your eye he allows himself a small smile and you think you're okay with this. It's not easy, and it's not the marriage you want, but it'll do if this moment lasts a while longer.


End file.
